Oh Waiter!
by girl in the glen
Summary: On assignment, the Russian is placed in an embarrassing situation... or two. For Picfic on LJ.


The young waiter glided effortlessly between tables, deftly avoiding the stray customers who tended to veer into the wait staff as they wandered in an alcoholic stupor.

Illya Kuryakin had donned the uniform of black jeans, white tee shirt and a pair of high top tennis shoes. The clothing items were skin tight and more revealing than the normally reserved agent would have liked. So far he was just grateful that he still had both items between him and the hungry crowd.

As he delivered a tray of drinks to a group of giggling college age girls he barely managed to escape without being pinched and fondled. It was all he could manage to maintain a friendly demeanor as he silently seethed at the rude and overly familiar antics of the inebriated women.

"Say, tovarisch, you must be nice to the paying customers. You wouldn't want to lose your job at the Hot Bar."

Napoleon's voice oozed his enjoyment at watching his partner deal with the rowdy crowd. If he looked ten years younger, as the Russian somehow managed to do, he would have volunteered for this assignment and relished every minute.

"Very funny, Napoleon. I wish it were you out here being mauled by drunken college students."

"Hey, I wish it was me too!"

This was what Illya had been dreading from the beginning of this blasted assignment. The Hot Bar was known for hiring men who were willing to shed their clothing, or at least some of them, in order to please the clientele and without the right of refusal. It was in the agreement all waiters signed before starting work in this bizarre establishment. Short of complete nudity and a few acts bordering on indecent, no request was ever refused.

Napoleon thought his Russian partner might implode from the pressures he was surely experiencing right now.

"Easy, tovarisch. Remember, our target is the group at table 7. You have to play along with this one so that our friends don't get suspicious."

Illya wondered morosely why it was always him being stripped down to his boxers. Someone would eventually pay for this, most probably Napoleon.

He headed to table 7 and began another round of introductions.

"Hello, my name is Deke and I am your waiter tonight. May I get you something to drink while you decide on your …"

He was stopped mid-sentence.

"Oh look, this is why we're here girls.'

All five women stopped talking and turned to look at the Russian who had introduced himself as Deke.

"Deke? That's an unusual name, but no matter. We're here for a good time and you look like you can provide one. Isn't that right, girls?"

The THRUSH Wives Club met at the Hot Bar every Thursday evening, probably because their husbands were all such miserable human beings and the women needed something to remind them of life outside of the Hierarchy.

These were wives of prominent members of THRUSH, and the discovery that they could all be found in the same spot on a regular basis had alerted UNCLE to the possibility of doing a little unobtrusive snooping when the liquor was flowing and tongues were loose. It was probable that these women knew some of the secrets that their husbands handled, and Illya's job was to make them want to talk; that, and to place a small microphone on one of them so that their conversation could be recorded.

Now that he was facing all of them, Illya had to determine on which one he could deposit the microphone. Depending on what her request was going to be he would make the decision.

"My, you are cute. I think you should lose that tee shirt, baby cakes.

One of the other women seemed already slightly tipsy.

"Oh, Claire honey, I think he's more of a beef cake than a baby cake!"

All of them cackled at that. Illya pondered the meaning of the term beefcake, but decided it had something to do with whatever they expected from him

"I shall be happy to oblige. Would you care for something to drink?"

Napoleon didn't think Illya's response was as friendly as it should be.

"_Illya, schmooze a little. These ladies want to be your friend."_

The women weren't paying attention, but rather had all gotten a glimpse of another waiter who was stripped down to some customized briefs with the letters H-O-T emblazoned across his derriere.

"Oh honey, that's what I want to see. You and a pair of hot cross buns."

At that all five women howled with laughter while Illya swore mentally in three different languages. To the one who had made the request, he tried to deliver a 'friendly' response.

"You are very clever, something that will make obliging you that much more enjoyable for me. The drinks?"

The ladies all chattered and finally gave Illya their drinks order. He made his way to the kitchen, irked and impatient for the evening to end. He stripped down to the briefs that were, like the other fellow's, marked with the letters H-O-T. He had done degrading tasks in the line of duty before, but this was something he would vehemently deny in the future.

As Illya Kuryakin made his way out of the kitchen with his tray of drinks, the recognizable tune _The Stripper_ played on the speakers, announcing yet another waiter had been reduced to his skivvies. Much like the singing of Happy Birthday might be observed, the entire bar stopped and watched as the slightly built blond emerged from the double doors and made his way to deliver his tray full of delights to the five THRUSH wives.

Napoleon recognized what was going on now and wished he had a camera trained on his reluctant partner. It was a fluff assignment, to be sure, but there was always the possibility that some key intelligence might be discovered by tapping into the conversation at this table. Illya was obligated to perform his part, no matter how distasteful it was to the taciturn agent.

"Ladies, your drinks…'

One by one he delivered a round of colorful, fruity flavored beverages to the giggling women. One of them had on a dress that sported a small collar; it was just enough for Illya to place the small microphone on the underside. He pretended to wipe away an imaginary bit of something on that petite collar, smiling earnestly into the eager eyes of the forty-something woman. She blushed as his fingers slid across the fabric, wishing for all the world that she had the nerve to kiss the handsome blond. She took note of a full bottom lip as she licked her own

The contact activated the microphone

"Got it. Good job, _Deke_."

Oh yes, Napoleon would definitely pay for this.

The evening wore on and the Russian bounded from table to table until his feet hurt and he thought he would never again want to hear the sound of women laughing. Several of them had pushed dollar bills down the front of his briefs, much to his shock and amazement. Women back home would never be so brazen, but of course you couldn't find men parading around in their underwear in any of the Moscow restaurants.

By the end of the night there was just enough useful information gathered from the THRUSH wives to justify this little experiment. Illya deftly removed the microphone before the ladies departed, causing one of them to think she had somehow merited the favor of this desirable young man. She went home feeling slightly consoled in spite of the man who would be waiting for her.

Napoleon was waiting in the communications van when his partner climbed in the back. Fully clothed now he was counting his tips as he crawled into the seat next to his partner.

"So, looks like you had a good night, Illya. It's good to know you have a back up plan should you ever need a job."

Smug didn't begin to describe the look on Solo's face, but Illya's revenge wouldn't come tonight. No, another day and under different circumstances, but come it would.

"I seem to have been a hit with the ladies, if that's what you mean. In any event, I deserve the extra benefit of having made some money at this ridiculous charade. I will probably have bruises tomorrow from being manhandled, not to mention the liberties they took in shoving these bills … well, anyway… I hope you got something worthwhile for my trouble."

Napoleon had to laugh. He also knew that sneaky Russian was going to pay back the favor of tonight's work, and it wouldn't be pretty.

"As a matter of fact, we did collect some information tidbits about an upcoming THRUSH convention of sorts. Seems the ladies are planning a little soiree in connection to it, sort of tea time for the visiting wives of several highly placed officials."

Illya's expression was one of disbelief. Since when did THRUSH let the wives and girlfriends plan social events while the men, and possibly Angelique, plotted ways to take over the world? He shook his head absentmindedly.

"Whatever it is, you're going in as the waiter next time. I'll sit in the van and listen to their giddy conversations."

Illya was continuing to count his money as he spoke, slowing down as he held up one impressive bill to show his friend.

"Look at this, Napoleon. One of those crazy women gave me a hundred dollar tip."

The look on the blond's face was sheer delight, and Napoleon had to wonder at such generosity.

"What exactly did you do in there, Illya? A hundred bucks, just for strutting you stuff in some tight jockey shorts?"

It was almost beneath him to gloat, but then again he had endured a horrific evening in nothing more than a wisp of fabric that barely covered his most treasured parts.

"Well … I suppose she was merely expressing her gratitude and … um… appreciation. You know, the human body is a work of art."

_A hundred dollars? Just to see Illya in his underwear._

"I suppose they were admiring my large … um…. forehead."

Napoleon almost choked on his cold coffee.

_A hundred bucks for Illya's big forehead? _

Illya decided revenge was no longer necessary.


End file.
